


Is that what I think it is?

by LittleAprilFlowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Denerim, F/M, I can't believe I forgot the mabari, Wonders of Thedas, he's back at Eamon's estate okay I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13871736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: Prompted by dearcaspian (thursdaysshepard on Tumblr). Just a fun little drabble - I don't write even close to enough about my canon Warden, even though I love her with all my heart. Something fun and self-indulgent. Enjoy!





	Is that what I think it is?

Perusing the markets of Denerim had proved to be a lengthy task, once the Warden and her companions had dealt with bandits, mercenaries, demons, and other such intolerable parties who had roamed the streets for their heads. 

‘Is is really too much to ask?’ Artin sighs, washing her blade of yet more blood from the rainwater streaming off a nearby rooftop as the evening grew darker, ‘I just wanted some shield wax and perhaps a new book, and what do I get? Qunari thugs, rage demons, Loghain fanatics, assassins, and a new scar along the back of my leg.’

She massages the wound in question, and at the same time savours the memory of its cause - yet another a Crow on Zevran’s trail - slammed mercilessly into the stones of a courtyard after Alistair had leapt to her defense.

‘It could be much worse.’ Zevran replies, tying back his hair to get the dampened strands out of his eyes, ‘After all, you could have scarred your stunning face instead, and that would be a crime of treason against all dignity.’

‘Charmer.’

‘It is only flattery if my words are insincere, my friend.’

Artin throws a grin at Zevran, who offers one right back. Alistair tuts and asserts himself between the ex-Crow and his fellow Warden.

‘Yes, well. Shouldn’t we be getting somewhere dry? We’re a while away from Eamon’s estate, so perhaps a tavern?’ he suggests, glancing about at the signs and shopfronts, trying to discern a reasonable place to take shelter from the persistent downpour. For a country accustomed to poor weather, today’s rain had driven all but clearly the most determined sellers (and attackers, it seems) from the streets.

Artin begins a hurried march through the dreary streets with her companions close behind. Curious faces of children and adults alike peer out from candlelit windows, watching the mismatched procession pass their homes. Glances linger particularly on the hornless Qunari, and on the walking mountain of stone and crystals bringing up the rear. The Warden’s companions made quite the sight indeed, even for a capital city. But it had been proved on their travels that it was better being as imposing as possible when there was a regent’s ransom on your head.

‘That place there in the corner looks promising.’ Wynne calls, from where she walks beside Shale, her face obscured by the hood of her robes protecting her face from the rain. Artin and the others follow her gaze to a purple sign dangling above the door of a shop, from which the warm welcome of candlelight glows through the sleet. Following her direction, the group ducks inside - Shale electing to remain outside in case they were followed; though Artin suspects it is because the golem had seen already that they would not fit through the door, and desired to save themselves from embarrassment.

The interior of the shop is as warm as it appeared from outside. Towering bookshelves and cabinets fill the space from floor to ceiling, stacked with books and glimmering artifacts, a few weapons. Mannequins bearing strange garments line the walls like some kind of mismatched honour guard. From the very back of the shop a man in mage’s robes comes to the storefront and takes in the ragtag group dripping rain onto the wooden floors. The sunburst mark on his forehead marks him as a Tranquil, and his slow emotionless speech confirms as much.

‘Welcome to the Wonders of Thedas.’ the man greets them, ‘It is most fortuitous that such a group has found shelter with us. Our wares rival even the Black Emporium of Kirkwall - though our clientele is far less exclusive.’

‘I’ve heard of this place.’ Alistair says, as he and Artin wander among the shelves, the group dissipating to explore on their own, ‘Where do you think they get all this stuff? You think they, um, have any miniature golem dolls?’

‘Still missing a Shale for your collection?’ Artin teases, recalling the Grey Warden puppet she had gifted him a few weeks back. It never ceased to amuse her that this man, whom she had seen spear abominations on his sword with no fear and behead darkspawn tirelessly on the field of battle, played with toys.

The man in question pouts adorably, the pink on his rain-slicked cheeks making his freckles wonderfully prominent. Artin laughs and insists he bend down for an apologetic kiss, which he readily accepts.

‘Ooh, glass slippers!’ Leliana exclaimed with delight nearby. Morrigan huffs in disgust but then is also distracted by something she describes in a low voice as a ‘Chasind fertility carving’, whatever that might entail. Zevran voices his disappointment at the waste of the shop’s name - in his spoken opinion, it would have better suited a whorehouse - before moving to see what Wynne has discovered in another corner.

‘Jade, carved and polished into the shape of a large… Oh, I see. Well, that’s just… rude.’ she murmurs, much to the assassin’s delight.

‘I did not take you for such a prude, dear Wynne.’ he teases, ‘Surely you can see the practical uses for such a thing, no?’

‘If by practical uses you mean bashing in the head of an unfortunate home intruder, then yes, maybe.’ she quips right back, pleased by her swift retort as it leaves Zevran laughing. 

‘Hey, could I borrow a sovereign? I’ve always wanted a head of an adulterer, preserved in honey.’ Oghren calls from upstairs. 

‘Really?’ Artin replies, leading the rest of the party after him.

Sure enough, there is the shrunken skull in the glass jar, the poor soul’s face frozen in a permanent skeletal grimace. Dead hair clings to the leathery skin atop of it and a few teeth have sunken slowly through the thick amber embalming fluid to settle at the bottom.

‘We could leave it on Loghain’s doorstep. Give him an idea of what we’re gonna do to him.’ Oghren suggests as the group round on him and the grotesque spectacle.

‘Why use honey, I wonder?’ Leliana asks aloud.

‘Does it matter?’ Alistair murmurs, ‘It’s disgusting. And a little sad, honestly.’

‘I’m sure they deserved it.’ Morrigan responds, ‘A fitting end. They could not resist indulging in something sweet, and so is condemned to drown in it eternally.’

‘Almost poetic.’ Artin agrees, and she feels her lover cringe at the agreement between herself and the hedge mage he hated so bitterly.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Zevran announces from somewhere behind them, and his friends shift away from the macabre jar to see him crouched over a woven basket. It seems at first to be a pet bed, but then Zevran stoops to retrieve whatever is inside. ‘These are illegal in Antiva, you know, and for good reason. Even the most skilled courtesans would not dare submit their patrons to it.’

He turns to show Artin and the others a smoothly carved wooden stick, barely a foot in length, with a ruby red gemstone mounted on the hilt. Though it is unfamiliar to nearly all of them, resembling a miniature mage’s staff, Leliana muffles a giggle under her hand and steps towards Zevran to run her fingertips across the wood.

‘I’ve never seen a real one.  _ Une idole de plaisir. _ ’ she says, ‘Marjolaine claimed to own one, though if she did, she hid it away quite well.’

‘Antivans call it  _ Il Discfacimento _ … The Unravelling.’ Zevran adds.

‘And what is it?’ Artin asks, ‘What does it do?’

‘As I said, it unravels. Pleasure beyond imagining. It undones you in many senses of the word. Clothes, nerves, coherent thought… Sweet torture.’

‘ _ La petite mort, infiniment. _ ’ Leliana agrees, suddenly altogether solemn.

‘And how much is it?’ Artin inquiries, striding to her two roguish friends and taking the staff from Zevran with an air of confidence and finality. Zevran delights both in her brashness and in the furious rouge rising once more in Alistair’s cheeks.


End file.
